Our Basic Program Is The Same
by SRC
Summary: Summary 1: It was funny how quickly a good moment could unravel.  Summary 2: A life for a life.  Characters: Dick, Jason, Tim  ensemble .  Warnings: language, character death, violence.


Title: Our Basic Program is the Same  
Author: the_protagonist  
Fandom: DCU, Tim Drake (Jason Todd, Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne, misc).  
Rating: R for Swearing (Jason Fucking Todd), Blood and Character Death.  
Word Count: 2,772 words.  
Notes: All you need to know is that, Superman, Green Lantern and Booster Gold all met this creepy Time-keeper on the search for Bruce Wayne. I'm pretty sure this happened in The Return of Bruce Wayne #1.

(Tim's POV)

"You're *sure* that you don't want to stay? He'll want to *see* you, little brother." Dick's strong hand was on his shoulder, pressure just right; comforting and sure. Holding him down and still and it was like drowning in the best possible way.

"That's really nice to hear, but really... It's fine, Dick. Someone's got to take a patrol tonight and well," he sighed and pushed his bangs out of his eyes, "This just feels like it's my job. I'm the 'Nightwing to your Batman, yo'." He joked out, but it felt slightly stale, even to his own ears. New tactic. "Don't even pretend you wouldn't have done this before- for him." He ducked his head and looked up at Dick through his lashes and hummed out a laugh, "Besides- It's a regular patrol. I'm not going off to Guam, you know? Bruce will see me in the morning."

Damian spun around quickly on the console chair he had been working at, "*I* could patrol with Drake too-".

"No." Tim and Dick said in unison and Damian huffed and turned back to study the monitor.

"This is all perfect Tim-talk for, 'It's an obligation'. You don't *have* to go; you don't *have* to do this now. You can stay here-", Dick paused and squeezed Tim's shoulder again, massaging at the muscle where neck met shoulder, "-With us. He would understand, Tim."

But he did need to go. Because if he waited any longer, he wouldn't be able to walk out of this room and he was truly convinced that wasn't what Bruce would do. "I think this is what he'd want, though." He admitted to Dick, "He'd want me to look after Gotham for him tonight." He ran a hand through his hair; it was getting long again. "I love you, Dick, but I have to go now. Tell Bruce-" He met Dick's bright blue eyes and then smiled slowly at his own feet. _Tell him I love him_. _Tell him that-_ "Tell Bruce I'll see him when I get back, okay?"

And he pulled down the cowl and kicked the stand of his bike back and left thoughts of Dick, his family and Bruce behind him as the engine of the Ducati roared in his ears. Gotham was his focus, now.

_Time to get to work._

(Dick's POV)

It was just... it really was just all going too well. Nothing ever went... this, well... this *quietly* in this family. It just didn't happen. And it was impressive how quickly Dick had been lulled into a false sense of security. He'd need to work on that in the future.

And it had been the best five minutes of his life, from the moment he saw Bruce being unfurled from Superman's cape, the smell of clean, night air coming off of them in waves. The way Bruce looked so *sure* as he walked towards Alfred, but seemed to melt into his father's arms.

Bruce had stayed in Alfred's arms for several minutes, words might have been murmured between them, but Dick couldn't hear them and Clark, who was leaning against the far wall next the computers, had a small, satisfied smile on his mouth. He could probably hear what they were saying, but, Dick doubted he was *listening*.

And then Bruce was in front of him, arms wrapped around his torso, trapping his own arms against his sides and he was back to being a skinny, scared little nine-year-old, pressing his face against Bruce's chest. Breathing Bruce in. Because he was the best, most capable man Dick knew. And things like linear-time surfing didn't change that sort of stone, cold fact.

But the moment was broken when Damian cleared his throat next to him and extended his hand to Bruce.

Bruce gently pulled back from Dick to turn toward the surly boy and extended his own.

"Father." And, as the two of them shook hands - "I'm Robin now, and I'm better at being Robin than him and it's mine and I'm not giving it back."

Bruce's lips turned up for just a moment as he looked around the room, still holding Damian's hand. "Where's Tim?"

Dick opened his mouth to reply, but just as he did, the space... the air behind Bruce and in front of Clark seemed to split - to slice open and suck in the light from the bunker. Like the nothing of the space ripped and stretched until some*thing* began to move out of it; from the tear that had merely been the air in the bunker just a moment before. The figure floated out of the space that had just been created and moved as though it were connected to some sort of invisible monorail system. Each push forward, as sure and measured as it possibly could be.

The figure in front of them was genderless. With hands that appeared to reach out even as they were doing nothing, clicking and grabbing at air in front of it and by its sides. Tools to... to measure? To grab? To calculate? They weren't human hands.

The amalgamous form was covered in a thick, shifting hide, but on closer inspection, the shifting was caused by bars of numbers, lines of code, dates and time scrolling and rippling and disappearing so quickly Dick couldn't even be sure they had actually been there at all. It seemed robotic, non-sentient.

It creeped Dick out.

And it was Clark who moved first; who spoke first. "What do you want? Your help was appreciated, but we found who we were looking for on our own." Clark's blue eyes were narrowed slightly and Dick thought he looked half-way predatory.

-There are laws that cannot be broken. For matter that has been brought into this temporal plane, we must remove matter from the same axis.-

"Kal. What is it talking about?" Bruce's eyes were questioning, he'd shifted in front of Dick and Damian. He looked like Batman.

-Law's cannot be broken. One must go. There has already been a choice. This is how it must be.-

"I don't know Bruce, but I'm going to find out." Kal stepped closer to the Keeper, the beast's skin shedding numbers, scrolling faster and faster. "We can go back to the Epi-center - we can talk about this. Take me."

Dick's eyes moved back and forth, carding between the creature, Superman and Bruce. His heart was hammering in his chest. He wasn't sure what was going on, but Clark had clearly dealt with this thing before.

-It cannot be. Human for human; flesh for flesh. You are alien to this world and not an exchangeable piece. No. There has been a choice; it must be the first.-

"The first? The first what? The first one to ride a pony? The first one to watch every 'Star Wars' dvd in a row? What the hell is it talking about, Clark? No one is *going*." And the panic was setting in. It hit the bottom of his stomach like brick. He could hear it in his voice.

-The first one to know; the first one to touch upon the piece of the time in question. He was the first to find the cave and understand the markings within it. The first with knowledge of the skewed time-line. The trade has already begun.-

"What? That doesn't make sense! How could you know-"

"*Dick*." Bruce repeated with pain in his voice, "Where is Tim?"

It was funny how quickly a good moment could unravel.

(Jason's POV)

He'd be lying if he said that he was *three* sheets to the wind- more like two sheets. Jason stepped out of the corner liquor store and popped the top of the 40 ounce beer can stealthily hiding in a brown paper bag.

In the bar where he'd just been thrown out of twenty minutes ago, he'd only gotten through a double of the wells-whiskey - tasted like swill - and watched the patrons of the bar just fucking trip all over themselves. Watched under-aged girls in unseasonable and too-short skirts drunkenly stumble into middle-aged perverts with hedge-funds and GHB connections and when were they going to fucking learn to just - *not to pull that shit in Gotham*. Cause Bruce- er. *Dick*...oh fuck... *Batman* would do worse than punch the asshole in the face and get himself thrown out of said bar.

Whatever. It all worked out. Jason got to hit someone *and* he made it to the liquor store with five minutes to spare before closing time. That really is a solid night in his book.

He raised the can into the cool autumn air and mock-toasted, "To yourself, Jason Todd," and took a deep swig.

Nah. Make it a sheet and a half. Who the fuck came up with that saying, anyway? Three Sheets to the wind. Seriously; what the hell was that?

He took another swig before lowering the can from his lips and wiping away the foam with the sleeve of his flannel shirt. As he passed the next alley Jason heard a soft, tenor voice come from the alley.

And there he was.

Red Robin. Tim *fucking* Drake. The Pretender. And he was in... not quite Jason's old uniform, but it was close enough. He'd heard about the kid getting sacked from the Robin gig. Unlike Jason, the kid clearly couldn't take a hint that his services were no longer required. If Jason didn't hate the skinny teen so much he might just feel fucking bad for him.

The copy-cat passed what had to be Alfred-made energy bars to an old homeless man, saw him slip a business card along too.

Jason took another sip from the beer and leans against the wall, undetected as the homeless man limped off and Drake turned around, "If you wanted to be a humanitarian, Drake, you should have just studied Social Work, not tried to be Red Robin." He smirked cruelly.

"Didn't you hear? I'm a high school drop-out now, Jason . Another thing that I did so I could just... emulate you even more." The younger man didn't even have the nerve to look intimidated. Bastard. "When did you get out?"

The little twerp asked like he didn't already know. Jason shrugged and then chugged for a few seconds, "Monday."

"So you got punched in the face within 24 hours of your release? That's... that's just great, Jason. I should really introduce you to Pru." Tim stepped forward into the light a little more, closer to where he was leaning against the old, dirty brick. "It would be- are you drunk? Jason, you can't drink that out here."

"Oh my god, Mr. Manners, I *hate* you." He gulped down the last of the forty and threw the empty can to the ground. "There. Now I'm not drinking it." He pushed off the wall, turned around to walk out of the alley and away from the Pretender. "As always, Drake, I hope to never do this again."

"Gotham isn't your trashca-" He heard a thud. The dull sound of a body hitting the ground and then the resonance of desperate panting and rasping echoed through the air, followed by the clatter of a tin lid from a garbage can.

Jason wasn't going to turn around; he wasn't going to give the kid the satisfaction of getting any reaction out of him...

But then he remember that this was *Drake*. This kid was serious about everything. He didn't joke around. When Jason turned one glance over his shoulder, Drake-Tim was on the ground. *Shaking*

Jason didn't remember moving, but he knew it he was on his knees next to Tim's convulsing body, grasping him by the shoulders to try and keep him still. "Robin! What's going on? If this is some fucking joke, you picked a hell of a time to develop one sick sense of humor, Pretender."

But the boy couldn't speak, because he couldn't *breath*. Small whistles of noise escaped out of the boy's mouth. And those were Tim's lips turning blue.

The information of the situation, of what Jason *knew*, was processing at record speed in his brain because he really didn't know anything and what he did know seemed to be stuck in a positive-feedback loop . "Tim! What the fuck is going on?" And he felt the gauntlet of the younger man grasp at him, catch his leg and squeezing with bruising force as the rest of his body continued to thrash around.

Jason needed to get the cowl off. Had to see what was going on under the hood- had to see what was doing this to the kid and he couldn't under all the leather and the armor.

But when he reached for it he was shocked, 25,000 volts ran through his body and screamed at his pain receptors. He reached for it again and was shocked again. Higher voltage. The kid was fucking booby-trapped!

Jason was numb now from the current that had just run through him, so he wasn't really sure how he had known where to press to disarm the security system on Tim's uniform but when he pushed the cowl up and over black, slightly sweaty hair, he noticed that Tim's eyes were fighting the body's response to roll up in the back of his head. Tears of blood swelled down past black eyelashes and over pale cheeks as Jason watched the capillaries burst in what was once the whites of Tim's eyes.

Pain caused Jason to look down. The spikes on Tim's gauntlet cut deep into Jason's quad, causing blood to bloom out of the denim of his pants. He ripped the glove off of Drake and-

Blood was welling out of his fingernails and he... his frame was still just... being wracked. He flopped around on the dirty pavement like a fucking fish out of water.

Tim still wasn't _breathing_.

And it's really fucking funny how fast that training kicks back in - the *first* thing Bruce had taught him; CPR. How fast, after years of dis-use, that he remember two deep breaths for every thirty pumps. And Tim's bluish lips on his had felt dry and chapped from trying to suck in air on those first few breaths, before Jason's spit and alcohol-drenched breath re-wet them.

And the boy's pulse was weak. Practically non-existent.

Jason tried chest compressions, but-_God dammit!-_The armor-

He grabbed his knife from his boot and cut the teen from the uniform; from neck to navel. He felt wires split and the nylon armor crack under the knife and he ripped the ruined pieces aside, exposing the white, scarred flesh.

Unmasked and disrobed, Jason remembered that Tim was smaller than the Robins before him, but he didn't hesitate with starting the chest compressions. Didn't even pause when he felt the sternum break, and ribs crack with sickening pops.

Thirty compressions.

Two more breaths.

Thirty compressions.

Two more breaths.

When Jason's lips lifted off of Tim's, he saw... spots of red leaking out of the kid's *mouth* and he just... he had to continue with compressions.

"Come on, Drake! Jesus Christ! Come *on*!" Jason was sweating now and he was crying and he couldn't tell which was which.

The next time Jason's lips met Tim's they came back coated with sticky, red blood. Jason could taste the iron through the acid that rose up in his throat from holding back tears. Tim's eyes were all the way up in his head now. No signs of blue. Just red, red, red.

Exhaustion hit him hard and abruptly and all he could do was pause and pull the limp body up to him, just hold on tight and squeeze while he let his mouth kiss the top of the boy's forehead leaving behind a bright red imprint on the pale skin.

At some point Tim had stopped shaking, but was the younger man was still hemorrhaging sluggishly from invisible wounds, seemed to be sweating out blood and he should start CPR again. But before Jason could shift back into position, a blur, a *force* as solid as a brick wall knocked him back and Tim was pulled out of his arms. And Superman was in front of him, with his giant arms cradling Tim's small, white, red and black frame.

And Jason couldn't do anything but choke back a sob.

"You did well, Jason." And then he was gone, the smell of the alley quickly overtaking the scent of the atmosphere Clark had brought with him.

And he couldn't think. All he could do was just kneel there, the damp cement underneath his knees and shins while he tasted Tim's blood in his mouth with each ragged breath he swallowed past.

-fin


End file.
